


never could i tell him it was him

by palalabu



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Pining, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palalabu/pseuds/palalabu
Summary: He’s in his 40s now, keeping one small, old piece of childhood, shouldn't have matter. Blame it on midlife crisis or something.
Relationships: Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr
Comments: 16
Kudos: 78





	never could i tell him it was him

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Rufus Wainwright's The Art Teacher. 
> 
> disclaimer: i know nothing about arts or british posh school.

Lando stands against his desk, staring at his newly purchased painting. It was small, old. Clashing against his expansive and modern office. He’s in his 40s now, keeping one small, old piece of childhood, shouldn't have matter. Blame it on midlife crisis or something. 

“A Turner?” A kiss on his cheek, her hand slides along his shoulder, before she rests her head on the other one. “Never peg you for a Turner guy.”

Lando smiles. Her dark hair falls down her shoulder, her red lips are perfect. And yet Lando couldn't look away from the painting. “Maybe there's more to me than what you see,” he says. As someone had told him before. 

____

Lando tugs the sleeve of his suit jacket. The change from his race overall into his school uniform is never something he particularly welcomes, being more comfortable in the first one. His mum told him it’s just because he spends more time at the track than in school. But school is never where he belongs anyway. He’s never been the studious kind. And if he had to sit for hours while he’s not racing, it’d only be for his video games. Not books. Besides, what would he do with a degree when he’s a racing driver. 

This time, it’s his tie that bothers him and he tries to loosen it a bit. Well, at least, next class is art, which he’s not totally hopeless at. As long as they get to make something and not just learn theory, or even worse, art history.

“That’s what I’ve been saying. We should have a realistic anatomy drawing class. And he should be the model, instead of teaching us.” Lando hears one of the girls whisper to her peer. That, and the obvious buzz of excitement in his class, are the only warning Lando got before his breath got taken away. 

Had he ever told anyone about this, they would’ve told him he’s being silly, as it seems impossible how that moment unfolds. But Lando would swear everything stops around him, nothing matters anymore, as he watches, in an unbelievable slow motion, that man walks into his classroom. Thick tresses of dark hair, sunkissed skin, and just so effortlessly mesmerizing in his boring grey sweater and black shirt. And when he turns, deep brown eyes roam the room before pausing on Lando, he sends him a smile. Lando’s weak heart though, it skips a beat, before drumming against his chest in staccato. 

Carlos Sainz Jr. Spanish. Just recently graduated from university and not that much older than the students he taught. Disarmingly charming with his thick accent and a habit of twisting his lips as he talks, as Lando quickly learns. 

They’re having art history that day. And Mr. Sainz gives his lecture by walking from one end of the room to another, too eager to contain his enthusiasm for the subject matter. He has one hand in his pocket, and the other gesturing animatedly. He’s apparently funny, and the girls giggle cloyingly sweet every so often. While Lando is held paralyzed on his seat, unable to take his eyes away. Art history lessons never fly as fast as that day. 

The bell ring is the only thing loud enough to drag Lando back from the spell cast upon him. Around him the class are gathering their belongings and ready to move on to their next schedule. 

Lando is one of the last students walking the class, tries to linger since he doesn't know when he’ll be at school again and has the privilege to revel in his teacher’s beauty. And yet, when it’s time for him to pass Mr. Sainz’s desk, Lando can’t even raise his head. All he dares to do is to peek through his lashes, wishing he could be invisible so he could just admire him from afar. 

“Wait!” 

But of course he’s not that lucky. 

He stops on his track and turns stiffly. Face burning hot, hoping his short curls somehow grow longer right at that moment to cover his blush. 

“You’re Lando, right?” 

He almost says,  _ it’s Norris, _ since that’s how teachers are supposed to call their students. Carlos pronounces Lando’s name all wrong anyway. The L is too strong and it is supposed to sound like ‘land’ with an O, instead, there’s a double N and without a D. And Lando loves it. 

He nods, prompting the teacher to continue. “You missed my class last time. For racing, I heard?” Lando nods again. “And you’re just signed with McLaren? Congrats!”

Not a lot of his teachers appreciate his racing career, so every positive comment is encouraging for Lando. “Thank you, Mr.Sainz.” His response is barely a whisper, but he can’t even stop the timid smile he offers his teacher. 

“Eyy,” the older man pulled a face, nose scrunching adorably. “Mister Sainz is my father. Just call me Carlos. Or Charly, like the British seems to prefer.” But  _ Carlos _ doesn’t seem to like that name either. 

“You don’t look like a Charly,” Lando says before he could stop himself, and immediately mentally beats himself up since he’s surely just ruining whatever potential relationship he could have with his teacher. 

“Carlos then.” And Lando isn’t ready for the big warm smile or the bright brown eyes looking up at him. Carlos, Lando has decided, would be the end of him. 

——

Carlos somehow knows Lando designed his helmet himself and he tells Lando that he'd like to see it. He tells Lando he might give him the extra credit that Lando needs and ends his sentence with a wink that left Lando’s skin to tingle all over and was seared into his mind. One of the first few that Lando locked into a tiny box of memories marked with Carlos’ name. 

It’s not really the first time Lando ever noticed a (older) boy. Because there was Max, and George, and Alex (and that one time of George _ and  _ Alex). But they were all just fleeting moments and maybes, when he’s slowing down from his racing. 

None of them turns Lando into an avid football watcher, hanging around the field just so he could catch a glimpse of Carlos--only in his undershirt, flushed and sweaty from chasing a ball all over the field with other students. He wishes he could ogle as openly and commenting as lewdly as the girls do. Because no one has ever been as visceral as Carlos who could wake him up in the middle of a night with wet dreams _ -Carlos giving him a head and he’s just laying there and taking it; Carlos behind him, pinning him down, rendering him powerless against the bed, fucking him so deep; Carlos having Lando’s knees on his shoulder, fold him in half, fucking him hard and reckless- _ as erotic as the sex Lando learns from all the porn he watched. And if he spent longer for his showers now, it’s all thanks to Carlos. 

And no one has ever been so easy with his compliments and support in his passions other than racing. Praising Lando for helmet design he basically copied off Valentino Rossi’s. It’s nothing, it’s just a stupid design. But stubbornly Carlos tells him  _ ‘if it means something to you, it’s not nothing.’ _ And Lando could only bite his lip and resigned to just believe whatever Carlos says.

Carlos makes Lando wish he’s a real artist. Because Carlos needs to be immortalized into paintings. Simple photographs won’t do him justice. Lando wishes his hands could translate what his eyes are reveling in that he’d sit with an open notebook and a pencil in his hands. Doesn't even know where to start but his fingers are just itching. Perhaps he should try sculpting instead?

“Lando.” And he’s brought back from his daydreaming by the subject himself. Carlos is standing right in front of him, looking disappointed. “Your tie.” But all that registers into Lando’s mind is Carlos’ hands--hairy with strong, long fingers-- are of a proper man. Mature. Skillful hands that are capable of creating beautiful pieces. And it’s fixing Lando’s tie, smoothing it down his chest. “You could get caught by the headmaster. And it’s not going to be good. Always wear it properly,” Carlos tells him before leaving him still rooted on his seat.

Lando makes sure his tie is always loosened for the rest of the year. 

——-

Carlos organizes a museum visit for Lando’s class. Even works with Lando’s mum behind his back to make sure they could fit the trip in Lando’s schedule and that Lando could join them. He convinces Lando that it’d be a good school experience before Lando had to drop out for his career. “I know you don’t go to school a lot. This will be a great experience, Lando!” He said with uncontainable excitement, with his big grin and bright eyes. And who’s Lando to say no to that. As if he’d say no to anything Carlos asks to begin with. 

He does always miss school trips. Opting to go to the track or do some training instead. It’s no wonder he doesn't know most of the people in his class and has to stand behind everyone else, outside their circles of friends. Quietly following along. Quietly watching Carlos passionately explaining the difference between Rubens and Rembrandts. Yet the only notes Lando could take is that Carlos’ dark locks are too long, and Lando wants to run his fingers through it. 

Carlos manages to catch him alone at the end of the trip. Casually draping his arm on Lando’s shoulders, just like he did with the other boys. Because that’s all Lando is to him. Just another student in his class. 

“So what do you think?” he asks Lando, with the same enthusiasm that he seems to always carry with him. “Is there any piece that you like?”

_ Yes. It’s you. _ Because Carlos is the only masterpiece for Lando. The one that blurs the rest around him and grabs and holds Lando’s focus only to him. But Lando bites his lip instead. Points at random artwork on the visitor’s guidebook in his hand. 

“John Singer Sargents.” Carlos tells him. That’s the first time Lando hears the name. Perhaps he should’ve really paid attention to the paintings, instead of his teacher. “It looks idyllic, no? Is that why you like it?” The painting was of two girls holding Chinese lanterns among trees and lilies. It’s beautiful. So at least Lando wasn't lying when he said he likes it. “There’s youthfulness to it. Innocent. It suits you.”

Lando could feel the heat that creeps up his face. If only Carlos knew what Lando had been thinking about him. 

“What’s your favorite?” Lando asks when he’s sure his voice won’t crack. Anything to keep Carlos to stay with him longer. 

His teacher grabs the book from Lando and flips through the pages until he finds a painting of a shipwreck caught in a storm by Turner. It’s dark and dramatic. “It’s nothing like you,” Lando blurts out before he could stop himself. 

But Carlos only asks. “Why?” 

Because Carlos is smiles and burning passion, and charming informality. Because Carlos is the sunshine in Lando’s otherwise dull school life.

“It looks… gloomy.” Lando settles instead. 

The teacher grins cheekily, as if he has something he kept for himself. And all Lando wishes at that moment is that he could ever be privileged enough to be the person Carlos shared all his secrets with. “Well. Maybe there's more to me than what you see,” Carlos says, but doesn't offer Lando anything else. 

And Lando just watches as Carlos stands there in front of him. Because Carlos is so devastatingly handsome in his drab wool jacket and plain shirt. With one of his hands in his pocket, and that one simple detail-- his habit as Lando has learned by now-- washes Lando with the familiarity of the first time he saw him. The scene is locked into his memory, and tucked preciously, hidden between knowledge of racing lines and tire management, just like everything else about Carlos—precious and hidden. And yet Lando always knows where to find it, plug it to the forefront of his mind and watch the scenes unfold with a pastel tinted filter whenever he locks himself in the darkness of his room. 

“Look, Lando. I’m sad to see you leaving.”

_ Me too, _ he wants to say now that he has one reason to stay in school. And oh how everything has changed in the course of just a few months of having him in Lando’s life. 

“But I’m sure you know what you’re doing and you have good support around you.” Carlos offers him a smile with the lips that Lando could never kiss. “You’re gonna have a bright future ahead of you, Lando. I just know it.” And Lando wishes he could ask Carlos to repeat his name again because in that bright future Lando is sure he would never meet anyone else who’d pronounce his name so equally wrong, yet so right. 

But instead he has to watch Carlos walk away, like the one shining beacon among his uniformed peers--and in an otherwise grey memory of Lando’s school years, his childhood. And still Lando has so many things he wants and cannot say, should not say, to him. Words that would forever be Lando’s alone, to not even hear but only think of. And maybe Carlos is right, maybe Lando will have a bright future ahead of him. With all the wins and trophies. But Carlos will remain a crushing defeat before the race even starts. 

___

Unlike what everyone said at the start of his F1 career, Lando turns out to be not a Lewis Hamilton. But he had come into terms with the fact a few years into his career and pulled a Jenson instead. He won his one and only WDC and spent the rest of his years just racing for the sake of racing. 

He left F1 when his father retired from his own company and needed someone to take over. Once again trading his race overall with another form of uniforms--three piece suits and dress shoes. And feverish childhood daydream, with a stable, comforting companion of a wife. Doesn't hurt that she brings help to keep the company afloat. 

He’s still racing in his free time. He still makes his own helmet. Still wishes he was a real artist capable of creating actual art pieces. None would be as beautiful as  _ him. _ But at least perhaps he would notice Lando then. Perhaps then they could meet, by chance, in an art gallery or an exhibition, or a museum. Or Lando perhaps could invite him, on purpose, just to show him how his arts are pale in comparison to his beauty. And perhaps he’d then, finally, get to know Lando as more than that one kid who left school for racing that one time. 

“Don’t forget your meeting, dear.” She moves and runs his fingers to smooth Lando’s already perfect tie--because it is always perfect these days--before leaving him alone with his painting. 

A Turner. He owns one instead. 

  
  
  



End file.
